


convalescence

by aresentfulcaretaker



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aresentfulcaretaker/pseuds/aresentfulcaretaker
Summary: In the course of his recovery, Graves makes a new acquaintance.





	convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> There are a couple of facts that conflict with the FB2 canon.

Picquery is his first visitor. She looks worn around the edges, though only someone as familiar with her as Graves could tell. And only someone like him would know that, despite her calm demeanor, she is in a hurry. She must go out and right his wrongs.

The room is not small but compared to those of MACUSA it is a broom closet. She takes it in slow and steady, inspecting the few pieces of furniture lining the walls, the wall of windows, the chimney, the ensuite door. And him, lying in his narrow bed, a half pillaged breakfast on the table beside it.

When he looks up at her, he is careful not to read her expression. He meets her eyes, scans her face, but retreats to the edges before he can spot pity or concern. He is so tired of being looked at like that.

“How are you?” She asks.

“Been better. Been worse.”

She looks down at the tray and he wonders if the doctor or nurses have told her how he’s still not able to keep food down. How it’s not a good sign. She picks up the little plastic straw from the napkin and drops it into the cup of cool apple cider. She offers it and he takes it without protest.

“Things haven’t calmed down in the slightest,” she says.

“Did you think they would?”

“I thought Grindelwald would be the problem. Not the rest of the wizarding world. It’s been one meeting after another. Journalists, politicians.”

“Which ones?”

“The Minister of Magic mostly. He won’t leave me be.”

Graves waits for her to go on but she doesn’t. It wouldn’t bother him so much if he didn’t make the mistake of noticing her absent demeanor. As though it didn’t even occur to her he might want the information, that he would’ve been the first to know everything once.

She shakes her head and schools her expression. The troubled, distant look turn to a placid smile. “Are you comfortable here?”

A harder question than she realizes. He does not even try to think of a complete, honest answer. “It’s where I need to be, right?”

A nod in the affirmative. Her hands, held together at her front, unclasp and clasp. She must be going.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, providing her an out.

“Of course,” she smiles, appreciative. Unclasping her hands one final time, she reaches out and squeezes his forearm. “Get better, Graves.”

He watches her go and wonders if, like every patient and visitor, she’d surrendered her wand upon arrival. Bringing the cup once more to his lips, he tries to drink from the straw. It’s empty.

 

*

 

A few days pass without him noticing. It’s easy to lose track of time when one is confined to a single room. And despite spending so much time in bed, one doesn't sleep. Graves knows his body has recovered, he’s been told and he can feel it. Whatever is keeping his stomach empty and his mind awake is not a simple physical matter.

Tina is his second visitor. It’s not the first time he’s seen her since he was found. She was there when it happened and came to visit him at the first hospital they had him in. Unlike with Picquery, he watches her expression when she looks around the room. It’s not pity that appears on her face but guilt.

There’s a desk in the corner of the room. She takes the chair from it and brings it so that she may sit beside him. She has a bag with her with his belongings. Things she picked up from his townhouse when no one was looking.

“They put it back the way they think it was before,” she tells him. “They didn’t find anything.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he looks through what she’s brought him. Books, a set of Wizard's Chess and self-shuffling cards, a stack of newspapers from the past few weeks. Tina puts it all away from him in the empty dresser across the room. All of it but the chess board. She stays long enough to beat him twice and call it beginner’s luck.

That guilty look returns when it’s time for their goodbyes. He is not unsettled by it because it confirms his suspicion that he’ll not be welcomed back to MACUSA. If Tina hasn’t been given his job, she at least knows who it’s been given to.

Later, in the afternoon, he retrieves one of the books and tries to read it. The story won’t stick with his mind wandering the way it is. He gives up and stares out the window. Several floors up, the view is one of massive tree trunks dappled with snow. Their evergreen needles sway in a gentle breeze. The hypnotic motion lulls him into a calm stupor, eventually sending him off to sleep.

 

*

 

Graves catches his first glimpse of him through half shut eyes. A man sitting at the window. At first, he’s only a silhouette against the gray light of a winter storm, snowing swirling bright outside. But as Graves’s eyes adjust, he comes into focus.

He’s dressed formally. His suit jacket has been hung up with his coat on the rack by the door. His head is bent, looking down into his lap. He’s humming to himself. Too softly for it to have woken Graves. As he’s thinking this, the song stops and the man speaks.

“Can you believe it?” He has an accent. Graves places it as European, then more specifically British. “I’ve nearly finished my lemon sherbets.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. And I’d only just opened the bag this morning.”

“Long day then?”

The man turns, giving Graves a good look at his face. It’s tired but kind with a smile soft as his song. Eyes bright and blue. “By comparison of what’s to come? No.”

Graves feels a stone of dread form heavy in his belly. It’s the same ill feeling those newspapers give him.

The man gathers up his candy and rises. He comes to stand at Graves’s bedside. His presence is heavy and pleasant like water.

“May I call you Percival? I know we’ve only just met.”

“So long as you tell me what to call you.”

“Albus should do,” he extents a hand. “Dumbledore, if you prefer.”

Graves shakes it. “I’ve heard that name before.” Are you with the ministry?”

“I’m a professor at Hogwarts.”

“Not a politician?”

“No. Do I seem like one?”

“Yes.”

“Good at spotting them, are you?”

“Usually.” Graves is not convinced he’s wrong. “What is it that you teach, Professor?”

“Transfiguration.”

“Not my favorite subject but I wasn’t half bad.”

“What was your favorite?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He coughs out a laugh. “Guess I should’ve studied harder.”

“I doubt any amount of studying could have prevented what happened to you.” Dumbledore says.

And Graves likes the way he says it, matter-of-factly. Not like he’s just being kind. Still, he pushes back against the statement. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Then let’s change the subject.”

“No, let’s not. We’ll only have to return to it.”

“No, we won’t, not today at least. I only came to introduce myself.”

“Not to talk about Grindelwald?”

“Not today,” Dumbledore repeats. His easy expression folds into a more thoughtful one, his brow knitting. He asks, “Do you know when you’ll be released?”

“No.” Then, “Whenever they decide.”

“You haven’t asked?”

“They wouldn’t answer.”

Graves wonders what Dumbledore knows about this place. If he understands it and what it means to be there. That it is closer to a prison than a hospital, that those kept here are seen as liabilities. 

He must know, Graves thinks. He’s asking to see if Graves himself is aware of his situation. There’s something invigorating about being measured in this way. Interest stirs in Graves like a swift current, making him feel like his old self for a moment.

Dumbledore moves away in the pause of their conversation. He’s at the coat rack, replacing his suit jacket. His winter coat, gloves, and scarf are hung over his arm. There are wards on the hospital grounds that one must clear before being able to disapparate. Dumbledore will have to walk through the snow.

“It was good to meet you, Percival.” He returns to shake Graves’s hand again, giving it a squeeze this time.

“And you, Professor.”

“Get some rest.”

And when he leaves, it is like water rushing from the room. Graves sits there in his absence, thinking over the exchange. He wants to know more about Albus Dumbledore, wants him to visit again soon. Before this feeling succumbs to the dull, dreadful reality he’s been stuck in.

The rest of the afternoon is for reading the last of the newspapers. MACUSA has released very little information. Graves bores quickly and decides to take a break. He goes to the en suite, stretching his legs, splashing his face with water. He ignores his reflection and its unfamiliarity. The weight he’s lost makes him look too much like his father.

On the way back he decides to replace the chair at its desk. He grabs it by its back and tilts it. A strange sounds, like a marble rolling, stops him.

It’s a lemon drop. The bag’s been left for him, neatly sat up in the corner of the seat. Graves picks up it up, weighting it. He sees now how few are left.

 

*

 

The papers tells him he was right about Tina. She’s been promoted to his position. The article calls it a temporary arrangement because of her involvement in Grindelwald’s apprehension. He knows it will not be temporary.

There’s no mention of Dumbledore. It occurs to Graves that while it was obvious what he was there to talk about, it wasn’t obvious why. The context of Dumbledore’s involvement was unexplained. What did a professor from Hogwarts have to do with a heretic like Grindelwald?

His thoughts on the matter are interrupted by his new prescription. A nurse arrives with a dose of dreamless sleep. They’re hoping to regulate his waking hours. He is appreciative of the pure lack of consciousness the draught provides.

 

*

 

Tina visits again. This time, she smuggles in junk food. Graves knows it’s more for her than him but he accepts what she offers to share. The chocolate bars are especially appealing. Those lemon drops seem to have revived his sweet tooth.

“I wish I could say things are back to normal,” she says.

Dumbledore’s words echo in Graves’s head, about how there’s much to come. “I don’t think things will be back to normal for some time.”

She nods agreement. “There’s less noise. But the press won’t let up. And the Minister of Magic won’t either.”

“What does he want?”

“Grindelwald.” She chews on a stick of licorice. “He’s worried about appearances, I think.”

Fawley always struck Graves as weak and foolish. He’d never spoken to the man, it was not his place. But in the meetings he’d attended with Picquery he recalls an appreciation for his position. 

“There’s someone else that’s been brought to Picquery’s attention. Do you remember Newt Scamander?”

Graves knows only what he’s been told about him. He’s more familiar with Theseus but only in a professional sense. He says as much and Tina continues.

“One of his old professors. At Hogwarts.”

“A professor?” He asks, careful to give nothing away.

“A man named Albus Dumbledore. They think he and Newt might be up to something.”

“Has Scamander been behaving strangely?”

“Yes. But then, he’s a bit strange to begin with.” She smiles, more to herself than Graves.

“What do you know about the professor? And his interest in Grindelwald.”

“Not much. Only that they were close.”

“Close?”

“When they were young.”

The conversation turns to more mundane things. Tina fills him in on MACUSA gossip, tells him about the delicious baked goods her sister’s been bringing home. He mostly listens, enjoying how little he has to participate.

Soon she runs out of things to tell him. She hides the empty wrappers of their shared treats in one coat pocket and the unopened ones in another. It’s time to say goodbye but before she can, Graves asks her a question.

“Tina.”

“Yeah?”

“Grindelwald. Before you knew. Did he say anything? Anything harmful.”

“Oh. No.” Her expression goes soft. She tries to joke. “Nothing worse than usual, anyway.”

He does his best to smile back.

 

*

 

Outside, more snow is falling. It’s the heavy kind that plasters itself to the tree trunks and piles up between the spokes of the windows. Graves watches it with an energy building beneath his skin. Body and mind aligning, he grows restless and eager to end this bedridden chapter of his recovery.

On the rack by the door, there is a robe and a coat. He takes the former and fastens it tight at the waist. Before he can talk himself out of it, he goes out into the hall.

There’s no guard outside his door as he expected. But there are nurses at a desk nearby. He tips his head, smiling politely. They do not return the gesture, only continue watching with keen eyes.

He heads straight, feigning purpose. He passes patients and staff, exchanges small pleasantries without incident.

On the first floor, he finds a large commons area. The floor is carpeted and arranged with soft armchairs and sofas, coffee tables and ottomans. Sparsely populated, Graves does not feel an intruder upon entering. He is comfortable cutting through to look out the windows.

These take up two entire walls of the sitting room. It’s the first time Graves has seen the bottoms of the trees whose trunks decorate his fourth floor view. Their roots are buried beneath snow drifts.

In the corner, there is an exit. A small door with a poorly cleared path leading out into the woods. Graves squints through the white out, trying to make out where it goes.

A hand touches to his shoulder. He shifts away in surprise.

It’s only Dumbledore standing there behind him. He’s all layered up, just come in from the cold. His boots are wet with melting snow. Graves can trace his steps by looking at the tracks he’s trailed in.

“All right, Percival?” He asks, a smile breaking through his initial expression.

“Yes.” Graves’s voice is raspy. It’s the first time he’s spoken all day. He coughs to clear his throat. “What can I do for you, professor?”

 

*

 

They find a place apart. A corner with plush chairs beside a fireplace. Dumbledore, stripped down to his shirt-sleeves, is at ease. Graves finds himself relaxing, too, and wonders if it’s a tactic.

“I’m afraid this visit won’t be as pleasant as the last,” Dumbledore says. “I have questions for you. Ones you do not want to be asked.”

“Then why ask me?” Graves keeps his voice level. He’s not angry but it’s a fair question. “At least a dozen people have questioned me already. And from what I understand, you have a certain amount of influence. Why not get my answers from someone at MACUSA or your Ministry?”

“I like to get my information from its source.”

“Even if the source is unreliable?”

“You think yourself unreliable?”

“I remember very little. You must know at least that.”

“I know you’ve claimed to have been unconscious for most of your imprisonment."

Graves feels a spark of defensiveness and anger at that wording. “You don’t believe me?”

“Have you been telling the truth?”

A log splits in two on the hearth. Graves meets Dumbledore’s gaze and holds it. There’s a sort of twinkle in his eyes, as though what Graves is saying is amusing. There’s something else, too, beneath the good humor. Well hidden and hard to name.

“I have questions for you, too, Professor. Can I expect you to answer them? And to tell the truth?”

This makes Dumbledore smile, like Graves has just met an expectation he was holding. He scratches his chin and looks down into the fire. “I will answer as wholly and as honestly as I can.”

He means it, Graves decides. He considers what will happen if he refuses now. The image of his room upstairs appears, empty and dreadful. What harm could it do to participate?

“Well, go on,” he says. “Ask.”

“Were you kept unconscious?”

Graves immediately wants to lie. He swallows the impulse and answers more honestly than wholly. “Some of the time.”

“And when you weren’t?”

“I was awake but subdued. Unable to move, unable to leave.”

Dumbledore turns serious with Graves’s cooperation. “How often did Grindelwald return to your house?”

“It was inconsistent. He’d leave and be gone two or three days. Then he’d come and go as if he was working standard hours.”

“Was he always alone?”

“I never –” He stops to think, tries to recall. A long coat, a feminine voice. He can’t be sure.

Understanding, Dumbledore nods. He does not follow with another question. He recedes from Graves, taking the information that’s being given and thinking on it. In the silence this provides, Graves decides on his own questions, choosing one to be the first.

“Grindelwald, he was a friend of yours. You knew him.”

“I did, once.” 

“What happened?”

“We fell out. You know how it is.” Then, “How well did you get to know him?”

“Well enough to wonder why anyone would be his friend." Graves can tell the comment has fallen too close to accusation or insult. He apologises with an amendment. “He didn’t speak of plans, present or future. He asked questions of his own.”

“About?”

“He needed information. Personal details. Things he couldn’t find in the house.”

“You don’t keep personal details around your house?”

“The sort of details he needed weren’t technical. You wouldn’t find them in safes or drawers.”

“And you cooperated?”

“As little as possible. At first, anyway.” It’s Graves’s turn to look into the fire. “He can be very convincing.”

Dumbledore hums agreement. “Yes. Yes, can be.”

The fire crackles. An orderly helps an old man by, back to his room. Outside the storm is picking up and night dims the sky.

“What have you heard about me, Professor?” Graves asks, wanting a break from talk of captivity.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Why? That bad?”

“Not at all, actually.” Dumbledore looks at Graves as though he’s looking at damage done. As though this self deprecation is a symptom or a scar. “But I’d rather not give you any misconceptions to live up to.”

“Does that mean I can expect another visit?”

“Yes. Perhaps we could take a walk through the woods, then. Get you some fresh air.”

Graves chuckles, pressing a hand to his face. “Fresh air isn’t what I need, Professor.”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt.”

 

*

 

His restlessness does not abate. He takes to pacing, to leaving his room for walks around the building. The days no longer pass unnoticed. They drag by and it reminds him of those weeks, trapped in his own home, immobile, helpless.

Dumbledore’s words about a walk outside nag at the back of Graves’s mind, crawling determinedly to the forefront.

Going to the wardrobe, he looks over the clothes the hospital had provided. There are t shirts and drawstring pants in an assortment of earth tones. There’s an extra robe. Two long winter coats and a spring jacket. A scarf, knitted hats, boots. He chooses what’s best for the snow and dresses.

None of the clothes feel like what he'd wear out in public. He misses his closet and his clothes. He doesn’t realize how much until his hands begin to shake so badly they can’t button his coat. He stands still until the longing passes.

The sitting area is more lively today. No one pays him any mind as he makes for the door. They’re all caught up in card games and conversation. He rethinks all his intentions with the first gust of freezing winds. Stubborn as he’s always been, it takes only a moment for him to right himself and push on.

The snow is thick and well packed enough to hold his weight. He walks without looking back, almost certain there will be a nurse watching him. Almost certain it will ruin the exhilarating freedom he feels.

He wanders through the tree trunks and looks up to see their naked branches cast like a net overhead. How long will he be left here? Will he ever be able to work again? He may never be the same but how close might he come? The questions cycle through his mind. His hands shake again. Reality threatens to settle in like sickness.

The cold keeps it at bay. It numbs his body, slows his legs and his pace. All thoughts peter out of his mind and he is overcome by the beauty of the forest. All encompassing, dressed in white, it is lovely. Really, truly lovely.

 

*

 

Graves’s next visitor is not Dumbledore. It’s the Goldstein sisters. They come to take him home.

They bring him a set of clothes. His wand will be returned to him on the way out. Tina speaks to him through the shut door of the en suite as he changes, explaining that this is happening at Picquery’s request. That they are to escort him home.

Tina is obvious in her distraction. She paces as he collects his few belongings, she keeps turning to her sister to speak in hushed tones. When his things are packed she takes the bag and says they’ll be waiting downstairs.

Queenie doesn’t go. She looks after Tina and - coast clear - takes a small step inside.

“It’s not so bad, Mr. Graves,” she says. Her expression is one of kind reassurance, her tone the sort one uses to soothe a wounded animal.

“What do you mean?”

“The two of you are more different than you think. I can tell just from listening.”

He still doesn’t understand as she backs out of the room, giving a little wave as she disappears after Tina.

 

*

 

The townhouse is both familiar and not. Everything is as it was before Grindelwald happened. It should feel like coming home. But there is too wide a gap between what Graves sees and how he remembers it. More self-accommodating than destructive, Grindelwald had emptied most of the rooms. The furniture had been moved, possessions magicked away. He’d hollowed out enough space to pace and plot or just be. And Graves had grown used to it.

Now, in the cluttered tidiness of his resorted house, he cannot settle. The impulse to undo MACUSA’s fixing creeps up, pushed forth by anger. His fist clenches around a phantom wand. He is thankful the real thing is still stowed in his bag. He should retrieve it now. He should apparate and check himself into the closest hotel. It will provide him with space, breathing room. The time and relief the hospital should have given him.

He doesn’t trust himself with a wand, not yet. There’s power in the simple act of holding one. Power and responsibility he’s not willing to take on.

Taking up his bag, he goes back outside. Tina and Queenie are long gone. He sees no one left to watch him. He hails a cab and leaves the city behind.

 

*

 

The Graves estate is perfectly matched to its family. The house stands proud at the end of a long drive, looming, imposing. It’s dark brick looks a shade blacker, wet with precipitation. The lawn, blanketed in snow with blades of grass peeking through, stretches out unfenced into the dark surrounding woods.

Graves pays the no-maj taxi driver and watches him roll back down the driveway, tires crunching on gravel. When he is alone, he turns to the house and says a silent hello. Now this is familiar, he thinks, this is right.

He uses his wand to open the front door, quickly putting it away afterwards. The foyer is massive and cold with its marble floors, high ceiling, and unlit chandelier. Silence sits heavy like an atmosphere, waiting to be broken. Every sound echoes in the wide space, including poorly hushed voices.

At the mouth of a hallway across the room, four house elves debate who he could be. They don’t recognize him, not until he steps into the light spilling from the windows. A little cheer goes up and they rush to meet him.

“Master Graves, it’s been years,” says Toaster. The oldest and roundest. She still wears half a black curtain draped around her like a toga.

Gin, the tiniest, energetic as a field mouse, tugs at his pant leg. “Will you be staying long?”

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“Are you well?” Lettie asks in her delicate voice. Everything about her is dainty and poised, right down to the neat tea towel she wears.

“I’m fine. Just had to get out of the city. I – would you mind, a cup of coffee?”

“Coming right up, sir,” Toaster says, already headed off to the kitchen. The other two follow, leaving Graves with the quietest elf.

Behemoth, named for his abnormal largeness, waits for direction. His eyes are on Graves’s bag.

“Would you help find me a room?” Graves asks him.

“Don’t want your old one?”

“No. No, one of the guest rooms should be fine.”

They head up to the second floor, Behemoth carrying his bag. Graves walks ahead. He knows where he’s going. Past a study, a bathroom, a smoking room. The doors are all shut, most likely locked. He doesn’t intend to change that.

“It’ll need airing out,” Behemoth says when they reach the first of the guest rooms. There is not a speck of dust around, not with the elves. But it is stuffy. “And a fire, to help drive out the cold.”

“A fire, yes.” Graves pats his pockets. “Any cigarettes around?”

“Papers in the kitchen. Lettie rolls ‘em best.”

“Have her put a few together, will you?”

“Thought you quit, sir.”

“It’s time I started again.”

Behemoth does not argue and leaves. Alone, Graves is unsure what to do. He looks carefully over the room and finds nothing that invokes memory. Good, he thinks, this will do.

There’s a loud pop and Lettie appears out of thin air. Her ears shift like a cat’s, apologetic at his startled face. She holds a familiar cigarette case. The one his father used to use. Thin silver, decorated with a black art deco design. It’s full of neatly rolled cigarettes, each with a filter and twist at the end.

“Thank you,” he says. He places one between his lips. “Would you mind?”

She snaps her fingers and the end smokes, the twist turning to ash. There’s a tray on the mantel, he goes to it.

“You look tired, sir,” Lettie says. She snaps her fingers again and the curtains draw themselves open, the latches on the windows clicking on undone. “Why don’t you lie down in the den? You can take a nap before dinner.”

“Alright,” he says. He doesn’t move at first. He watches the snow and tries to think of something to say. Coming up with nothing, he picks up the ashtray and goes.

In the den, a fire already burns. He takes a seat on the sofa in front of it. The crackle and heat push him back to that evening with Dumbledore. Strange, how much he’d enjoyed that conversation. The man had a way of talking, one Graves liked. He finds himself wishing for the opportunity to continue.

 

*

 

Graves has no dreamless sleep and thus turns to drink. His tolerance has apparently not survived this last long stretch of sobriety. Less keeps him down longer and his waking hours shift. They become irregular.

The elves’ concern is obvious but they accommodate him. They fetch him clothes as he’s brought none. Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself passing out on the stairs. They make him meals that agree with his increasingly sensitive stomach. They fix him his father’s pipe once he’s blazed through the rolling papers.

It occurs to Graves that he’s undoing what little good the hospital managed. But then if they’d really wanted to do good, maybe they shouldn’t have let him leave. Restriction, good health, they’re so difficult to uphold on one’s own. Relapse takes very little energy.

 

*

 

The clock strikes noon on Sunday of his second week at the house. Hungover and clumsy, he fumbles with the pipe, only untangling himself from the sheets once its lit.

Half out the door, half in his robe, he stops short. Gin is there, waiting in the hall. He looks nervous.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone here, sir. A visitor, a man.”

Graves looks down at his overused pajamas, his bare feet. He hasn’t combed his hair, hasn’t shaven. All he’s been eating… has he gotten fat?

“Did he give a name?”

“Dumbledore, sir. He’s very kind. Full of praises.”

A slight thrill runs through Graves like an electrical current. He wants to smile. “Where is he now?”

“The sunroom. He’s having tea.”

“Does he know I’ve been asleep all this time?”

“We told him you were ill, sir. With a cold.”

“Stay here, I’m going to change.”

He chooses slacks and a sweater. An outfit that could pass for leisurely, not depressive. He uses an enchanted razor to lessen the unkemptness of his beard. There’s more gray in it and atop his head. He considers hiding it but decides against it.

“You look lovely, sir,” Gin says when he emerges.

“Could you please go make a pot of coffee. A strong one.” He will need a clear head for this.

 

*

 

Dumbledore sits beside the sunroom window. There is no sun out today, only thick gray clouds and swirling snow. He smiles out at it, perfectly pleasant.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Graves says, entering.

“Oh, no trouble. I’ve been well taken care of.”

On cue, there’s a loud crackle and Lettie apparates into the room. She sets a large black coffee down and moves so that Graves may sit.

“You have a lovely home,” Dumbledore tells him.

“It’s not mine. Or I don’t think of it as.”

“Whose is it then?”

“My parents. They’re dead but,” a shrug, “semantics.”

Dumbledore nods. His tone softens. “Have they been gone long?”

“My mother longer than my father.”

“She worked for the government, too, didn’t she?”

“Yes. It’s what killed her.”

“And your father?”

“Grief.” Graves knows it can make people uncomfortable when he speaks about their passing so impersonally. Dumbledore doesn’t seem uncomfortable but he does appear ready to back off. Graves decides to turn the conversation on him. “What about yours?”

“Both gone. I wouldn’t say it was grief that killed them, though they were at the periphery of a great deal of it. Perhaps more than I’m willing to admit. If you ask my brother, anyway.”

“Good god, there’s two of you?”

“Aberforth and I are more different than alike, I assure you.”

“Is he your only sibling.”

“I had a sister. But she’s gone, too.”

They pause, both reflecting. Graves, ever the cynic, tries to decide how much of this is an act. What is genuine conversation, what’s meant to make him open up? Sipping his coffee, he decides it doesn’t matter. Even realized, such tactic can work.

Dumbledore clears his throat. “If it’s not too soon to change the subject… “

“To Grindelwald? We might as well.”

“Tell me, how did you two meet?”

A snort at the phrasing. “How did _you_ meet him?”

“His aunt introduced us.”

“I found him in a crowded cafe.” The taste of coffee in his mouth now turns bitter. He sets the cup aside. “I had some time on my hands. I went out. It was packed, people were sharing tables. I found a place beside a man reading a newspaper.”

It’s frustrating, to think back on it now. His mistakes seem obvious, filtered through hindsight, put into words. It’s difficult to tell how much of it was Grindelwald’s cleverness and influence, how much was his own stupidity.

“He struck up a conversation,” Dumbledore says, urging. 

“About the paper. Politics.”

“Of what nature?”

“I think you can guess, Professor. No-maj rights, the Statute of Secrecy.” Why did he let his pipe go out? “A few nights later I was attacked coming home.”

“How did he treat you?”

Where did he put the matches? “He was civil. More often than you’d expect.”

“Did you cooperate?”

“Not at first. But,” there they are, “after some time. It’s... difficult, in that situation. You lose perspective.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself. We’ve already discussed how persuasive he can be.”

Dumbledore gives him a moment to breathe and settle, to light up. Snow patters at the window panes, sticking, melting. The storm shows no signs of stopping.

“Do I remind you of him, Professor?” Graves asks. Even as he does, he doesn’t know if he wants the answer.

“In some ways. All the best.”

“How do you mean?”

“When he and I were close, I ignored a great many signs. Ones that, had I chosen to notice them, might have prevented our current circumstances. But I, I was distracted.”

Graves frowns. “And… “

“You possess some of the traits I found so very distracting.”

That sounds like a compliment. Graves is not prepared to accept one. Lucky for him, there’s a tapping from the left. Gin stands half hidden in the doorway, looking shyly between them.

“Dinner is served,” he tells them.

“Hungry?” Graves asks.

“Famished.”

 

*

 

“Your politics. Did you share any common views?” Dumbledore starts them off again once they are seated. He is opposite Graves, plate stacked high. The elves are excited to cook for someone new.

“I’m not on the verge of becoming one of his heretics, if that’s where you’re headed.”

“I’m only trying to decide if it was purely your position in the government that attracted him.”

That makes sense. But it also picks a scab Graves would rather leave be. “We agree on a number of things. And we must have a lot in common, for so few people to have noticed him in my place.”

“What is your opinion on the Statute of Secrecy?”

“Ultimately, it’s for the best.”

Dumbledore meets his gaze and stays meaningfully quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.

“The wizarding world does not have as much to fear from the no-majs as it once did. We have far more power and could do far more damage. Which,” he dabs his mouth with a napkin, “is why we should be kept apart.”

“For the sake of the muggles?”

A nod. “In an ideal world, we would coexist. Those with magic would not abuse their power. They’d simply walk freely, without concealment or worry. But the world is not ideal.”

“No. No, it is not.” Dumbledore says. There’s distance in his voice. He’s receded again.

Graves waits for him to return, picking at his plate. His glass is already empty of port. He debates whether he should have it refilled. He looks to see if any of the elves are around. They are not.

The phantom touch of focused eyes draws his attention back across the table. Dumbledore is giving him a look he’s seen before. As if he’s pleased him.

“What?” Graves asks.

“Did you tell this to Grindelwald? At the cafe or at your home?”

“We didn’t get this far. I conceded I didn’t believe magic should be hidden. But I excused myself not long after.”

“He would have believed you to be of the same mind.”

“Where do you far on the topic, Professor?”

“You and I are essentially in agreement.”

“Essentially.”

“We are in agreement,” Dumbledore says, correcting. A small smile breaks across his face.

“Is this what you two talked about? World domination?”

“We were always ambitious.”

 

*

 

The meal ends. More coffee replaces it. Dumbledore accepts his with the request for tea afterwards. Unlike Graves, he takes his with sugar and milk. He also asks if there are any cookies to be found.

When they tire of sitting, Graves offers a tour. Now well past sunset, the house is full of soft lamp light. It is more forgiving, allows for more charm. The portraits follow them with curious eyes. One or two offer hellos. Dumbledore is polite, happy to play the attraction.

“Would you like to stay the night?” Graves ask as they reach a hall of guest rooms. It would be rude not to offer.

“I suspect the weather hasn’t improved.” Wind slams against the house, making it groan. Answer enough. “I would, if your offer is sincere.”

“I’ll have them fix you a room. And another cup of tea, if you’d like.”

“I would, thank you.”

They return to the kitchen and remain there as the room is prepared. They share a pipe and discuss tobacco blends. It’s the nicest evening Graves has had in a long time.

 

*

 

Dumbledore is in the morning room. All set up with a full cup of tea and a book. He’s in a different set of clothes than yesterday. It occurs to Graves that he and Lettie are not the only two capable of apparition.

“Breakfast, sir?” Toaster asks as she brushes past him, a large plate of cookies in hand. Dumbledore shuts his books and clears a spot for her to leave them. He chooses his first as Graves sits down.

“Just coffee, please. And maybe some toast.”

“So tell me,” Dumbledore says. “How long do you intend to stay here?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“How do you spend your time?”

 _Drinking, sleeping._ “Resting.”

“Staying in, mostly?”

“Yes.” Graves looks to the door and wills an elf to appear with his coffee.

“Have you been keeping up the news?”

 _Oh._ That stone forms again in Graves’s belly. He steels himself beneath a placid expression. “Has something happened?”

Dumbledore pauses to deliberate. Then says, “Grindelwald has escaped.”

It’s not fear Graves experiences then but anticipation. A returning of purpose. With Grindelwald incarcerated and protect by bureaucracy and international relations there had been nothing Graves could do. Out in the wild, there is nothing he couldn’t.

“Your president tried to keep it quiet,” Dumbledore says. “But rumors spread and she was forced to confirm them.”

Graves runs through a mental inventory of MACUSA employees. Those who would know, who would talk. His mind does this with the ease of a wrist turning a Rolodex. His mental fog is lifting.

“Do they know where he might be headed?” Graves asks. It will make his intentions plain but Dumbledore will have anticipated them.

“Your aurors believe he is still in the city.”

“What do you believe?” Then, with more certainty, “You know, don’t you? Where he is. Where he’s going.”

Dumbledore wipes cookie crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “Do you remember when I last visited you in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“We never had that walk.”

They get their coats and go out through the mudroom in the back.

The paths are clear, lined with hip-high drifts. Graves leads them to the garden’s center. There is a fountain there. Cut from stone, it stands elegant and frosted. They diverge to circle it on either side.

Graves watches Dumbledore. He compares his first and current impressions. He thinks of more questions he’d like to ask.

“Are you going after him?” 

“I can’t move against Grindelwald.”

“Why?”

No answer. They meet at the top of the fountain.

“Because you were close?” Graves asks. “Because you want him to succeed?”

“Yes and no.”

“Tell me where to find him and I will move against him. I will stop him.”

“I will tell you. But it is not so simple.”

Quiet again. Graves tolerates it, trusting that Dumbledore will tell him when he is ready.

Looking out over the grounds, it’s hard to believe what a powerful storm was here only last night. Stillness permeates, blanketed with the snow. It calls forth a new restlessness in Graves. He is ready to leave, to rejoin the world. He is ready to take up his wand.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading


End file.
